by B. C. Tweedt
Greyson shrugged, which was pretty difficult with the backpack weighing his shoulders down. “I guess so.”
Sydney punched again. “Because you’re leaving.”
Dropping his eyes to the concrete floor, he thought. He was happy. Happier than he’d felt since he was at the fair before the attack. Why? Because he had hope, and finally, after weeks of waiting, he was able to pursue it. His daring side had been trapped, and now it was about to be released.
“Yeah. But I’m sad, too. Leaving you guys.”
DOOFDOOFDOOF!
Sydney’s knuckles were red. “I want to go with you.”
He shook his head and took another glance at the window. “But you’d leave your parents.”
“But you’re leaving me.”
Greyson’s smile faded into an embarrassed smirk. His cheeks flushed with heat. He didn’t know what to say to that. Maybe if he’d watched more movies he’d know exactly what to say – or if he’d learned more from Jarryd – but he hadn’t. He was just standing there, stupid, letting the bag swing between them as a barrier. Suddenly sensing the silence, he vented his embarrassment into the bag.
“My turn.” DOOFDOOFDOOFDOOFDOOF!
“I want to go with you,” Sydney pleaded over his punching. “I won’t have any friends here when the twins leave. Plus, it’s our thing. We can be daring – find your dad, and then come back, and be happy.”
“It was our thing…” Already regretting saying it, he averted his eyes to the window, hoping to see the man’s legs pass by outside. None came.
Sydney frowned and took over the punching. DOOFDOOFDOOF. Doof. Doof. She began breathing more heavily, both from the exertion and the impatience. “You blame me, don’t you?”
Both of them let the bag swing, creaking against the rafters. More sawdust sprinkled into their hair from above.
Do I? Blame her? Maybe. If she hadn’t fallen off the moving truck, I would have stopped the bomb. But either way, I can never tell her.
“No. Duh!” he whispered briskly.
She blew at a piece of her hair that had fallen over her face. Greyson thought back to the time he had pulled that same strand back over her ear before going into Cattlemen’s Steakhouse.
DOOF! He added another punch into the mix. “Why would I blame you? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
She hadn’t. But it was still her fault. DOOFDOOF!
He suddenly remembered pounding her chest as she lay dead in front of him. He had screamed at her: “I’ll dance with you, whenever you want! Wherever you want! I promise. I’ll never leave you out of anything. I’ll never…leave you behind.”
Greyson gulped down a lump in his throat and looked guiltily at Sydney. Had she heard him make that promise to her? “I – I…I’m sorry,” he said solemnly. And he meant it. He didn’t want to leave her. It was the last thing he wanted to do. After losing so much, it hurt to lose anything else at all – especially her. “I have to do this…alone.”
A sudden urge to comfort her, to make things right, made his foot take a step toward her, to the side of the bag. She eyed him cautiously, taking a few more half-hearted punches to the bag and blowing again at the strand of blonde hair. A faint glow of sweat had formed around her hairline and at her temples. There was something about that glow that made him want to put his fingers on her face and stroke her cheek.
Sydney’s eyes examined him. “You okay?”
He took another step toward her. That’s it, Jarryd would say. You can do it, bro. Chicks are nuts for confidence.
But he wasn’t that confident.
He could see her gulp a lump in her throat as well. She was dressed in short-sleeved athletic clothes, not good for a long trip, but good for running or fighting – two things that she was considering.
“Greyson?”
“Is it okay if I…if we…”
They were close now. Sydney’s eyes bounced around, and Greyson suddenly found the confidence he hadn’t had in this way before. Certainty strengthened his gaze, but his hands still shook as he raised them to her.
Just before his fingers found her arm, a shadow shifted over them and Greyson and Sydney’s eyes snapped to window. Something had passed by the window. It was time.
They looked back to each other and Greyson took a small step back. For a moment, they could only look past each other.
“Can I…hug you?”
Sydney peered at his vivid, green eyes, which were usually topped with intense, pensive brows, but were now wide open, shining with a shy desire. She couldn’t help but smile. “Sure.”
He smiled back and they embraced. Sydney buried her face into Greyson’s hood, and he let her golden ponytail fall against his cheek. The hug felt comforting and real to them both.
“You didn’t need to ask,” she said, already dreading when the hug would end. “Friends can hug whenever.”
Sydney instantly regretted the word. Friends?
Greyson let go first, eyes averted to the window. He glanced back at her, smiling. “Thanks. But I got to go.”
He scuttled to the shower, turned on the water, and returned to the window. Agent Gavin would definitely not come down to check on them now.
He turned to the window and stood on his tiptoes to check for the agent dressed as a gardener. He was gone. Then, turning the lock and pushing outward, he opened the window to its fullest. Judging the opening’s limited size, he took off his backpack. “Alright. I’ll need a boost.”
Sydney rushed to him and suddenly understood the hug. It had been a ruse, to convince her to let him go by himself. It was his goodbye.
“Is this goodbye?”
“Quick,” he whispered, in a rush.
She held out her interlaced fingers and he put his left foot in the cradle, pushing off and guiding himself through the windowsill without a word. Squirming though, he crawled onto the grass. It was only after he turned around to look down at Sydney that he responded.
“Now’s our goodbye.” His head poked from the window at Sydney’s head level. He was smiling, waiting for her response. She grabbed his backpack and dragged it to her feet.
She pouted. “Goodbye?”
Greyson smirked for a few seconds, debating with himself. Do it. You’ll regret it if you don’t. I dare you. A cold chill made him shake and his voice waver. “Can friends…kiss whenever they want to as well?”
Sydney smiled, too, and took a timid step toward him, leaning her face upward to meet his.
Footsteps interrupted their goodbye. Coming from the ground floor, there were two sets. And then voices. It was Sydney’s parents, returning from the funeral. They’d be looking for them at any moment.
“The backpack, quick!”
Snapping to action, Sydney slammed the backpack into the windowsill, but it was too big. The bloated bag wouldn’t push through.
“It’s too big!” she whispered franticly. “I have to take stuff out.”
“Hurry!”
She pulled the bag back down and yanked at the zippers. Out came the blanket, the flashlight, and her mesh shorts. When she pushed it back to the windowsill, Greyson pulled from the other side.
“Push!”
“I am!”
The footsteps were loud above and they were calling her name. It wouldn’t be long. He had to go, now!
Sydney jumped and pushed the bag until it popped free. Greyson went tumbling with it into the backyard, out of view.
A quiet rushed in as her panic washed away, the only sound being that of the shower splashing on the concrete and dripping into the drain.
Sydney stood, breathing heavily, staring at the empty windowsill where the sun’s rays glowed in a golden-white square. It took a moment for it to sink in. At first she expected him to come back, to beg for a kiss, or to at least say goodbye, but there was nothing but the sun.
He wasn’t coming back.
Chapter 8
When Sydney’s parents pulled into a driveway, Orion quickly took a right turn. He’d b
een following them for almost an hour, and as far as he knew, the FBI driver hadn’t noticed him. Tailing someone wasn’t as easy as he had imagined it. He had almost lost them a few times, but however hard it had been, it didn’t matter. He’d successfully tracked them down.
Not wanting to ruin it now, he began a lap around the suburban neighborhood, sniffing out the security. As he turned to the street behind, a taxi passed him, going the other direction. He glanced at it, but thought nothing of it. His thoughts were on the house itself, and how to infiltrate it.
After the lap, he found an inconspicuous parking spot on the street behind the house. Turning off the car, he began thinking as he waited for the team to arrive. If Greyson weren’t in the same house as the parents, he’d have to use the parents to find the boy. There were many options to do so. He could kidnap them and torture them elsewhere; he could kill all the security guards and torture them there; or he could also take the stealthy approach, sneaking in and keeping them quiet at the barrel of a gun. Perhaps their daughter, Sydney, was still alive. If so, that would make it even easier. And more fun.
Whatever he did, he had to do it wisely. His father had given him the mission, knowing he craved vengeance. He couldn’t disappoint him. Failure would not only mean losing his chance at revenge, it also meant his father could disown him – passing him off as a lunatic with no connection to Pluribus or to his father at all. After all, he was only an orphan without any official identification. If his father cut him off, he could never prove anything. He’d be –
A flash of movement startled him. A suited man with gun drawn came rushing toward him from the direction of the target house.
Panic swarmed Orion’s senses; he fumbled with the controls and rolled down the window. The suited man ran into the street, looking left and right, afraid. But Orion didn’t notice – he was pulling his gun from his ankle holster. When he looked up again, the FBI agent was staring at him, perplexed.
The guns fired at each other, nearly simultaneously.
BANG-BANGBANGBANG!
-----------------
Sydney’s family heard the gunfire inside the house, followed by squealing tires. The worst thought popped into Sydney’s mind. They took him.
Two FBI agents rushed with guns drawn to Sydney and her parents; they pushed them toward the garage as they assessed the situation. Her parents were frightened, her mother crying and holding her, and her father holding her mother – but Sydney was numb. The shots still seemed to hang in the air, ringing in her ears. Who had been shot? Had he made it?
“What’s going on? Is he okay? Is he okay?”
The FBI agents refused to answer, speaking instead to the agents outside as their eyes and guns pursued every corner, every window. Soon they had been herded to the garage and into an SUV. She hugged her mother and her mother hugged her back.
Her thoughts flashed to her last conversation with him. This was what Greyson had wanted, wasn’t it? For her to be in her parent’s embrace under FBI protection. Safe. Secure.
But Greyson…
PART 2
Chapter 9
Eight hours later…
Greyson’s head bobbed with the movement of the road. His eyes were open, but his mind was elsewhere – drifting with the mechanical hum of the bus’ engine and the whine of the road. The yellow lights running the length of the bus lit the middle aisle for late-night bathroom runs, but there were few others awake. They had turned off their lights, snuggled into blankets, and found the most comfortable positions against headrests and windows.
He pressed his forehead against the window, letting the bobs of the road move his skin up and down, massaging his skull. He had a headache, but he’d gotten used to it. It hurt to think so hard, but he couldn’t stop. The thoughts were haunting him like demons. And he dreaded them. It was whenever he shut his eyes that they would attack.
Though there wasn’t much to look at, he kept himself awake by watching the night’s scenery through the large sunglasses that covered much of his face. There were outlines of houses along the highway, but road signs and headlights mostly. He wondered where the others were going. South? Along with the other thousands? North? To Canada? Or maybe they were just going about their business. Returning to normal.
That’s what many were wondering. Was it okay to return to normal? How long until it was okay to throw a party without getting scorned? Before laughing at comical violence on a TV show? Could kids return to school? Learn about Hiroshima? How much time is enough?
His forehead grew sore, so he pulled his hoodie further over his head and used it as a pillow rather than the cold glass. Plus, it would hide more of his face. No one could know who he was, or they’d bring him back – or worse. Depends on who found him.
The bus driver slowed for a turn and the streetlights spilled through the windows like a disco ball on one last spin, dancing on the heads of the sleeping passengers. Greyson’s thoughts again played through his mind, memories he didn’t want to remember. But his guard had gone down – he’d gotten too comfortable. His eyes had shut beneath the aviator sunglasses and his jaw drooped. Soon his cheek pressed against the side of his hood and his arms curled into his jacket. After some time, thoughts drifted into dreams. Timidly at first. Then building in story and depth. Ones he cared about. Things he feared. Memories he dreaded. And the demons attacked.
“Ugh!” Greyson jerked awake, his right hand tensed and white, almost skeletal.
But the bus was silent – and still. It had stopped, but no one had woken. Greyson glanced around, still regaining his senses, and spotted the bus driver outside, working a gas pump. Bright fluorescent lights poured down to the cement of the gas station and made Greyson squint, even with his sunglasses.
In a moment he was out of his seatbelt, padding softly down the yellow-lighted aisle and exiting the bus, carrying his backpack with him. The air was chilly, like it was most late September nights. At least the bomb hadn’t changed the seasons.
He nodded at the bus driver. “Bathroom.”
“Right,” the bus driver squinted, but decided not to mention the boy’s sunglasses or backpack. “Five minute stop.”
Greyson nodded again and watched his breath escape toward the fluorescent lights. Still shaking off the sleep, he blinked heavily and let out a yawn. It felt good to get off the bus, stretch his legs, and clear his mind. But a gas station at night wasn’t the best place to linger. Especially when no one else was around.
He eyed the neighborhood. Not far off the highway. A darkened strip mall to the right, a high, wooden fence to the left, blocking off a neighborhood of apartment buildings with barred windows and chipping paint.
The door jingled as he opened it, and the first thing he noticed was the security camera pointed directly at him.
He pulled the hood further down and eyed the lanky, male cashier who looked up from a small television screen. The cashier eyed him back.
“Hi,” Greyson said.
“Hi,” the lanky cashier replied, watching him closely.
Greyson looked over the aisles and found the restroom sign. He couldn’t help but to overhear the television as he made his way to the back of the store.
“…south of Des Moines today. The suspects were caught looting in the Yellow Zone, only eleven miles from Ground Zero. Officials took the opportunity again to warn citizens to stay clear of all Radiation Zones unless one has obtained proper identification tags. Without the need to patrol the safety border, government and aid workers would be able to spend more time in rescue operations…”
Rescue operations? They meant body recovery.
Greyson finished his business in the bathroom and then took a long look at his face in the mirror. He pulled at his upper lip, examining a scar that ran halfway to his nostril. Not too horrible-looking, and perhaps even something other boys might brag about, but to him, it would only be a reminder of what had happened. He pulled at the skin around his eye. The black and purple and sick yellow had finally fade
d entirely.
At least the visible marks were going away. He put the glasses back on.
“…over 8,000. Asked about the unsettled death toll, Governor Reckhemmer lauded the efforts of the emergency personnel and volunteers who had devoted much of the last month to their country. Lashing out against the focus on the death toll, he said, ‘At this point, it cannot increase our love for those who were killed nor increase our hatred of terror. Let us focus on the things that do.”
Ignoring the cashier, Greyson left the building and the television. He was watching the bus driver put the gas nozzle back when he heard the footsteps. He stopped.
To his right, three teenaged boys approached him with long strides. To his left there were two more, one a girl. They were not dressed to impress, and their faces were dirty – and angry.
Options burst into his mind. Go back into the station. Run to the bus. Confront them. Attack them before they get the chance.
Making his choice, he turned to face the three and looked over his shoulder at the other two. They stopped and glanced at one another like they hadn’t expected him to stop.
“What do you want?”
“Just…just give us your money and we’ll let you go,” the biggest one commanded. His cheekbones were clearly visible and he licked at his chapped lips. Perhaps he was weakened by hunger. Perhaps he needed the money.
Greyson hesitated and shifted the backpack on his shoulders. He was analyzing them. The two boys next to CheekBones were wide-eyed and fidgety. Scared. The ones behind were probably the fast ones, meant to keep him from running. But they looked younger – more of an even match.
“Hurry up!” CheekBones snarled. And he pulled out a knife, letting it hang by his side.
Greyson’s heart dropped and the tension jerked at his muscles.
“Don’t,” the girl gasped. “If your dad finds out…”
“He won’t! Shut up!” CheekBones snapped. He turned back to Greyson. “Give us your bag, now!”
Greyson gulped and glanced toward the bus. The driver was watching them, slowly reaching for his pocket. The thugs caught his glance and turned their attention to the driver.